DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 14, SECTION 1

Part 14: Heavenly

As soon as I saw the cottage, I knew that it was perfect.

It had shingle siding and a little front porch with a pair of Adirondack chairs just waiting for someone to sit in them. A brick chimney perched on top of the roof. Two windows, flanking the front door, let in the warm morning sunlight.

There was even a key under the doormat. I couldn't believe it. We wouldn't even need to break the handle to get in.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

A double bed, neatly made, faced a small wood stove. There was a well-stocked kitchenette with a small dining table. The cottage must have once been a rental, I figured; the bed sheets and bathroom towels were clean, and there was a laminated note on the fridge with instructions about using the thermostat, where the nearest organic grocery store was, and other now-useless information.

I sat on one of the porch chairs and looked out across the vast LA valley. With no more cars on the roads or factories running, there wasn't a single wisp of smog. The view from the cottage was so clear that it seemed like I could just reach out and grab the skyscrapers downtown or dip my fingers in the blue Pacific Ocean.

"This is it," I said. "This is where we'll live. It feels like it's ours already."

Ian laughed. "With all the luxury houses in the Santa Monica hills, this is the one we're choosing?" He sat in the other chair beside me. "It's not too small?"

I shook my head. "It's just right," I said. "We can see the whole valley from here. I know the winters won't be that cold in California, but I bet we'll be glad to have a wood-burning stove by January. Plus, you think either of us are going to want to keep some dead movie star's giant estate clean?"

"You got me there."

Ian was kicking back on the porch chair like he'd lived there for ever. He liked the cottage too, I could tell.

"You know," he said, "if you want electricity, though, all it takes is breaking into a Home Depot for a generator."

"Maybe, at some point." I reached out and took his hand. "But I like the peace and quiet, you know?" A warm breeze drifted up the hillside, carrying a faint scent of eucalyptus. "I love how warm it is here, too." I took a deep breath of fresh, unpolluted air. "I don't ever want to think about snow again."

When Ian and I had left the dwellings, months ago, a spring snowstorm had blown in and had flung down torrents of wet, soggy snow.

At first, we'd planned on properly burying each and every one of the refugees. But without shovels, we soon realized, digging more than fifty graves in the accumulating snow would have been impossible. Besides, after our recent experiences with graves, it didn't seem like such a bad alternative to just let everyone rest as they died, each refugee smiling peacefully as the snow fell outside the stone windows.

Driven to eat voraciously by their TGVy infections, the refugees had slaughtered the last of the cattle and had eaten all of the vegetables and dried goods before death finally claimed them. So, without food, Ian and I were forced to go hungry during the long, miserable ride out of the hills. The spring snowfall was so wet, and the unfrozen ground was so muddy, that it took us four days to reach Muldoon.

The streets were deadly quiet. The snowfall there had been lighter, just light enough for us to ride the horses from abandoned vehicle to abandoned vehicle, searching for any with keys inside. Uncertain about the availability of gas outside Muldoon, we settled on a hybrid we found parked outside what had once been the La Cucina restaurant. The keys were on the seat, the engine started right up, and the tank turned out to be three-quarters full. We left the horses to graze on the football field where thick tufts of spring grass rose up above the melting snow. Ian kicked the car's tires, shrugged with approval, and we drove out of Muldoon forever.

Our plan, then, had been to visit every major city in North America with the faint hope of finding other survivors. . .

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